Murder in Santa Fe
by mnfowler
Summary: Graham Greene's "The Third Man" is set in mid-20th century Vienna, but the fish-out-of-water protagonist, Holly Martins, is a pulp novelist specializing in American Westerns. What if the story of "The Third Man" were re-told by a Western writer like Holly?
1. Chapter 1

_**"You stole money from the kitty back there," said Dunford.**_

 _ **Jolly was nonplussed for a moment. Then he said, "Mister, you're mistaken."**_

 _ **Dunford replied, "Are you calling me a liar?"**_

 _ **Jolly said, "I'm calling you mistaken."**_

 _ **Dunford stepped back three paces, folding the hem of his coat back from his holstered six-iron.**_

 _ **People gathered on the sidewalks to watch, though some sensibly stepped into doorways or behind sturdy objects in case of stray bullets.**_

 _ **"Mister," said Jolly, "I don't have a gun."**_

 _ **Dunford, having planned for that possibility—or perhaps counted on it—threw a pistol at Jolly's feet.**_

 _ **"Pick it up," said Dunford.**_

 _ **"How do I know that it's even loaded?" said Jolly.**_

 _ **"Now you're calling me a cheat?" demanded Dunford.**_

 _ **"At this point, your hurt feelings are not my main concern," said Jolly, "but I'm still saying that you seem to be easily mistaken."**_

 _ **"I'll check whether it's loaded," said Carrie, stepping off the sidewalk and into the danger zone on the street. Dunford said nothing but stared at Jolly.**_

 _ **Carrie picked up the pistol and checked it rather expertly. Jolly wondered how many other hidden talents this woman might have. "It's loaded," she said. She began to hand it to Jolly.**_

 _ **"Throw it back on the ground, lady," said Dunford.**_

 _ **"That isn't fair," Carrie said.**_

 _ **"Nevertheless," Dunford said.**_

When Jolly Norton arrived in Santa Fe by stage coach, five days after leaving St Louis, it was a hot, dry July day in 1852. His gray suit and black bowler hat had been new when he left but were now wilted and dusty from travel. He had managed to take a bath at the last station, but he was now in need of a change of clothes, and he didn't even have another suit. Jolly didn't have a cent, either, but he was hopeful.

An old buddy from the Mexican War, name of Jack Norwalk, now living in Santa Fe, had offered him a job, not particularly well specified, but it was enough to lure Jolly from his job at the St. Louis Dispatch, writing obituaries for the town's worthies and, sometimes, not so worthies. The lure of Jack's offer had not been the pay, which was unspecified, too, but it had to be better than the little the Dispatch offered. Besides, it was his good old friend Jack, who had always thrown him a choice bone and always had an angle, whether it was when they were growing up in St. Louis where Jack taught Jolly how to ditch school—and get away with it—or when they were in the army and Jack wangled them extra food or added leave. Or like the time in New Orleans when Jack found a back way out of a gambling den—when they really needed it—that Jolly didn't know Jack had ever been in before. Jack never needed anyone to show him the ropes. He was born with an instinct for finding ropes to pull that even the veteran never seemed to know were there.

Standing outside the New Orleans Hotel, where Jack had given his address, was a maid named Bijou. She gave Jolly his first shock by telling him that his friend had died in an accident two days ago.

"That's right, mister," said Bijou. "He got run down by a buckboard. Killed dead in an instant." Bijou had given no surname when he asked her name. She was a black woman of indeterminate age with a curious accent, which was definitely New Orleanean, but difficult for Jolly to pin down, it being a city that had so many local dialects among its French and English speakers. Whether or not she was a slave now, Jolly guessed that she was probably born into slavery. Her clothes suggested a maid's uniform, although not a new one. She was a bit plump and, over the years, had undoubtedly let out as well as mended her uniform, doubtless with a sewing kit she kept in an old box at the foot of her cot in a back wing of the hotel. So Jolly pictured her existence.

"Did you see it happen?" he asked.

Her large, clear brown eyes grew thoughtful but distant. "Well sir, I was upstairs, cleaning that room right there"—she pointed from where they were standing toward a window right in the middle of the second floor—"when I heard a wagon rumble by, and then horses neighing, panicky like. I looked out and seen a wagon riding away on Main Street and, uh, two men carryin' a body across to the other side."

"And the body," said Jolly, "did you know it was Jack Norwalk?"

"I know'd Mr. Jack, but I couldn't see. Later on, though, everybody said that's who it was."

Jolly contemplated Jack's and his own mortality for a moment before he continued his questioning. "Did he suffer?"

"I don't know for certain, but, meaning no disrespect to your friend, mister, he looked about as lively as a sack o' potatoes. No, sir, I 'spect he was already dead 'tween the time I heard the ruckus and when I looked out the window."

That was a mercy, thought Jolly, but he was still distressed and disbelieving that things had turned out this way. "Who were the two men who carried him?"

"Señor Behar and Mr. Reddeck."

"Who are they?"

"Oh, they good friends of Mr. Jack. Maybe business partners."

"Maybe?"

"I don't butt into other people's business."

"Did the police look into it?"

"Police?" Bijou pondered. "Oh, you mean Sheriff Cobb. Sure, he looked into it. The coroner had an inquest and all. Wasn't much to it, though. Doc Pepperidge is the coroner, and he's also everybody's doc. He even came along right after the accident."

"You mean, two of his friends and his doctor—who happens to be the coroner—were all there when he died?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you give evidence?"

"Me? No, sir. There was enough witnesses, includin' Doc hisself. Besides, nobody wants to hear nothin' from the likes of me."

Jolly was taken aback. He knew full well what the majority of white people thought about black people, but he did not share in the prevailing prejudice. He was something of an abolitionist, in fact. Most of the time he hid his true opinions in a kind of mental closet, but he was leaning toward some of the radical new political parties, especially the Free Soil and Liberty parties, many of whose members fervently wished to stop the spread of slavery in the short run and end it altogether in the long. In this case, however, he was bothered that society's damnable prejudice had prevented the sheriff and coroner from getting all of the facts. He began to wonder whether there had been other oversights that had kept from the authorities the whole truth about Jack's demise.

"Has he been buried yet?" he asked the maid, who was already turning to go back into the hotel.

"Not sure, mister," she said, turning toward him again. "If you want to see your friend while he's still above ground, you better get to the cemetery. They was supposed to bury him this morning, but the funeral may still be under way."

"Where is the cemetery?"

Just then, a woman who was at least ten years younger than Bijou—although that did not make either woman young—came out of the swinging half-door to the hotel saloon and called, "Bijou, get back to your chores! Unless that man is a guest of the hotel, you got no business yakking all the while there's still work to be done."

"Yes, Madame Beauregard," said Bijou loudly. She looked at Jolly sorrowfully but said nothing more to him before she lifted her skirt and swept past Madame Beauregard and into the saloon. Madame was well proportioned and attractive despite her age. Her skin was white but her hair was piled in a jet black pompadour. She wore a green satin dress with a prominent bustle. There were many flourishes of fabric including blue ribbons and white lace, as well as some suggestively exposed cleavage. She held a little black dog close to her breast. She eyed Jolly, and for a moment they sized each other up.

"Madame, my name is Jolly Norton. I am new in town. I was just asking your maid for directions to the cemetery."

Madame Beauregard developed an amused smile that was almost a smirk. She seemed to share this pleasure with the dog by gleefully rubbing its head. "You just arrived in town, and already you're headed for the cemetery. Some strangers in Santa Fe get there eventually. I have to hand it to you. You don't waste time."

Jolly heard the sound of New Orleans in her voice, but it was more readily identifiable to him than Bijou's blend. Jolly and Jack had spent several furloughs in New Orleans during their service and knew the town fairly well. He guessed that Madame was from the stock of old French settlers who formed a near aristocracy in the city. If she came from old money, he guessed, too, she was probably now living off of her own wiles, but living pretty well by the looks of her hotel.

Jolly got directions to the cemetery from Madame Beauregard. The coffin was just about to be lowered into the ground when he arrived. The preacher was a black-suited man with white side whiskers. He droned some Bible verses from the book he held in front of him. Jolly only heard, "I am the resurrection and the life," and then he tuned out the rest. There were two workmen standing by in sweat-stained shirtsleeves whom Jolly took to be the grave diggers.

The sparse gathering of mourners standing about seemed strangely disconnected from one another. Two serious-looking, well-dressed men stood together at one side. One of them was probably Mexican while the other might have been either a Mexican or an Indian. Jolly almost didn't consider the possibility that he was an Indian because he wasn't used to seeing one of them in such a fine suit. He almost didn't notice that the possible Indian changed expression when he saw Jolly and pointed out the newcomer to his Mexican companion.

At the edge of the little graveyard, as Jolly entered, was a grizzled, middle-aged white man in a threadbare but once fashionable dark jacket. He stood next to a younger, bigger man who was dressed like a cowboy just in from the range. Their backs were to Jolly as he approached. Both of them looked as if they hadn't even bothered to dust their clothes for the occasion. Their only gesture of respect was that they, like the grave diggers and the two possibly Mexican gentlemen, held their hats over their hearts. The older of the two outsiders turned as Jolly passed them, revealing the fact that he wore a tin star pinned to his dusty dark coat.

Closer to the grave site, but also with her back to Jolly was a woman in a dark blue gingham dress and a matching bonnet. She stood very still, facing the grave. When the preacher finished his piece, the grave diggers put the coffin in the hole and began filling it in, while the gathering slowly dispersed. The woman walked past Jolly and the Sheriff without a hint that she knew they were there. But for a moment Jolly glimpsed her face and was surprised to see someone so fresh and beautiful in this hard, dry land. Her olive skin was contrasted with blonde hair beneath her hat. A tell-tale white hairpin poked out from under the bonnet.

"Did you walk from town?" the Sheriff asked Jolly. "Would you like a ride back?"

"Sure. You must be Sheriff Cobb," said Jolly.

"And you are?"

"Jolly Norton. St. Louis Dispatch." As soon as he said it, Jolly rebuked himself. He was no longer with the newspaper, but it had become a habit, especially when he sniffed a story.

"Saint Louie Dispatch!" cried the big man. "I read that paper. Did you write the one about the gunfight between Flats Pittman and the Douglas Brothers?"

"I can't say that I did, but I read it just the same as you."

"Forgive Deputy Provost's manners, Mr. Norton," said Cobb. "Living on the frontier has not cured Mike of his romantic ideas about prospectors, gunfighters and mountain men."

"An' Injuns!" said Mike. "I like everything about 'em."

"That's only because he's yet to meet an uncivilized one," said Cobb. He inclined his head toward the two well-dressed men who were riding back to town on their horses, evidently with some meaning intended. There was a dark carriage that apparently belonged to the preacher, and one stationery buckboard seemed to belong to the grave diggers who had almost certainly used it to convey the coffin to the cemetery. A second buckboard near the edge of the cemetery turned out to belong to Cobb and Mike.

"Who's the girl?" asked Jolly, watching the now receding figure of the woman in deep blue. She was on foot while everyone else was leaving by horse, carriage or buckboard. Neither Cobb nor his deputy answered. The three of them climbed onto the wide bench. Mike shook the reins, clicked his tongue and said, "Gidyup!" The two mares started pulling the wagon.

"You knew the deceased?" the Sheriff asked.

"Jack and I grew up together in St. Louis. Then we enlisted together during the Mexican War. I just got into town. I was on my way to see Jack when I found out he was about to be buried."

"I'm sorry you lost your friend," said the Sheriff. He fell silent.

They rumbled past the young woman. She looked straight ahead. Never looked their way. Jolly turned and watched until she became a speck on the road behind them.

"How long did you know Jack?" asked Cobb.

"Twenty years."

"When did you see him last?"

"Not since we were mustered out."

"So you don't know much about his business these past five years or so."

"We haven't been in touch. I don't even know how he found me to ask me out here. I guess I was easy to find because, since the war, I've never wandered far from our old stomping grounds."

"You look like you could do with a drink, Mr. Norton."

"Call me Jolly. Everybody does."

"That a fact?" said Cobb.

"As to the drink," Jolly said, swallowing his pride, "I'm plumb broke."

"Don't worry about it," said Cobb. "I'm buying."

About ten whiskeys later, Jolly and Cobb were settled in at the saloon of the Silver Slipper Hotel. Jolly drank too much as a rule, and usually had a hollow leg where the stuff settled in reserve until he was good and ready for a stupor, but Sheriff Cobb still seemed sober, and Jolly knew that he had already said too much, even letting Cobb in on some of his and Jack's wartime antics, not that the statutes of limitations hadn't expired on most of them.

Deputy Mike didn't drink. He just strolled around the bar nonchalantly, occasionally looking out the big plate glass window with its wide view of the Plaza.

"It's a damn tragedy," said Jolly.

"What is?" asked Cobb.

"Jack being run down like a dog in the street."

"Best thing that ever happened to him," said Cobb.

Jolly suddenly bristled. "Whadaya mean?"

"I mean your friend Jack was a low-down crook."

Jolly took umbrage at this—and then a poke at Cobb. It was not much of a poke, though. For a big galoot, Deputy Mike moved fast as he had Jolly in a hammerlock practically before the newspaperman could cock his fist.

"You just want to ignore the fact that there's something funny about Jack's accident!" Jolly reproached Cobb.

"You got evidence there was something funny about it?" He waved his hand and Mike let go of Jolly's arm.

"Not yet," allowed Jolly, "but I'm going to get to the bottom of it."

"You're leaving town on tomorrow morning's stage. You can get to the bottom of things provided you do it from St. Louis."

"You think that just 'cause he may have cut a few corners, sold a bottle of hooch to some Indian, that you can wash your hands of him?" Jolly slurred.

"He did a lot more than sell a bottle of hooch," said Cobb.

"Why don't you catch some thieves or murderers?" demanded Jolly.

"What makes you think your friend wasn't both of those things?" said Cobb.

This time, when Jolly went to punch Cobb, he leaned into it and would have at least bruised the lawman's nose if Deputy Mike hadn't spun Jolly around and delivered a short, powerful jab to his mouth. He fell hard on the floor.

"Pick him up, Mike," said Cobb, heading for the door. "Give him a room in the Silver Slipper, get him a ticket back to St. Louis, and put him on tomorrow's stage."

"Yes, sir, Sheriff Cobb," Mike said as he hoisted Jolly off the floor.

"And, Mike, if he behaves himself, don't hit him again."

"Yes, boss."

After nursing his swollen lip in his room for a half hour, Jolly washed his face from a bowl and pitcher, changed into some clean clothes and came down to the lobby. He resumed drinking, but also began studying the hotel. The Silver Slipper, unlike the New Orleans, catered exclusively to respectable businessmen and government officials. A no-less moneyed but less savory sort stayed at the New Orleans, he was told. He asked the desk clerk how much he owed for his room and was told that, as a guest of Sheriff Cobb, he owed nothing. Cobb, it turned out, was half owner of the Silver Slipper. It further turned out not to be unusual in this town for its leading citizens to wear several hats. For example, he learned, there were only two doctors, and the one called Pepperidge was not only the coroner but also the owner of several small mines in some nearby hills, and the other doctor was known to treat horses as well as men.

Jolly asked where he could get a meal. Although the hotel dining room didn't open until after five, fortunately, Sheriff Cobb had left Jolly two dollars spending money. He got directions to a place nearby that served breakfast most of the day, and he was sitting there, nursing a cup of coffee and a pair of eggs, when he noticed that the Mexican who had been at the funeral was staring at him from across the room. The fellow picked up his coffee mug and crossed over.

"Excuse me, señor," he said, setting his mug on Jolly's table. "I saw you at the funeral, and I believe we have in common the friendship of the late Señor Jack Norwalk. I am Luis Behar." He offered his hand.

"Jolly Norton," Jolly said as he rose and shook the hand. "Mucho gusto," he added, nearly exhausting what little Spanish he remembered from his service in Mexico.

"La placer es mio," said Señor Behar with a curt bow.

"Have a seat," said Jolly.

"Thank you. You know, I must apologize for not meeting you when you arrived, but you came during the funeral."

"Oh, that's all right."

"I admire your ability to forgive, Jolly. I may call you that? Jack told us all about you, and his last words were that we should take good care of you."

"Last words? I was told that he was dead almost immediately."

"Who told you that?"

"The maid at the New Orleans."

"She saw the, the accident?"

"No, but she looked out the window immediately afterward and saw two men carrying a lifeless body across the street."

"Well, she was at a distance, no doubt, and she is mistaken. I was there."

"Who else was there? That Indian who was with you this morning?"

"Who? Oh, that is Señor Juan Reddeck. He is not a full-blooded Indian, you know. He is half Apache and half Mexican."

"I'd like to talk to him."

"This is not possible, I am afraid. He had to leave town right after the funeral."

"Oh? Where did he go?"

"He had urgent business in the San Cristobal Mountains. He has silver mines there."

"I see. I thought that Doc Pepperidge has mines out that way, too."

Behar became slightly uncomfortable and tried to pretend that his coffee was the problem. "It has become too cold," he complained. Then he asked, "Would you care to take a walk?"

"Actually, I'd like to walk with you to the New Orleans Hotel," said Jolly. He pushed aside his half-finished eggs and stood up.

"Why, yes, that would be quite acceptable," said Behar. "I am going that way in any case."

They walked outside and crossed the Plaza.

"By the way," said Behar. "Who told you that Doc has mines in the same area that we do?"

"I believe that you just told me," said Jolly.

"Oh, ho,ho, ho!" said Behar, breaking into a nervous smile. "You are very clever, Jolly. Yes, in fact, Juan and Doc and I all own some mines—mostly silver, gold, and some lead—in the hills."

"Was Jack a mine owner, too?"

"Yes, he was, in fact. He even mentioned that he would like you to have a share in his mines."

"He did?" said Jolly. "That is unexpected. Did he have a will?"

"A will? Oh, no, I am afraid he did not put this wish in writing, but Juan and I both heard him say before he died that he wanted Juan and I to have his mines so long as we share them with you."

"I'm just about speechless," said Jolly. "You know, Sheriff Cobb wants me to go back to St. Louis. I wonder how he'll react when I tell him I'm now a landed resident of Santa Fe."

"Yes, well, perhaps it would be best for you to return to St. Louis, after all. If you could just give me your address…"

"I don't have an address anymore," Jolly interposed. "I left everything behind to come and join Jack."

"I see," said Behar, considering this wrinkle. "In that case, if I give you my address, you could send me your new address when you get resettled."

"Gosh, everybody seems to want me to leave town."

"It is not that, Jolly. It is just that Jack left no other instructions regarding you."

"You mean you have no idea why he sent for me?"

"None, I am afraid." They stopped in front of the New Orleans. Jolly noticed Bijou watching them from the second storey. She was wiping the window of the same room she said she had been in two days ago when she witnessed the accident.

"Can you show me how it happened?" Jolly asked.

"Certainly. Juan and I were on the other side of the street when we saw Jack in front of the hotel right where you and I are standing now. Juan waved to him and stepped into the street. Jack began to cross the street to meet us when, suddenly, the wagon came down from that direction. The horses reared and whinnied. Then it was too late. They trampled poor Jack. We carried him across the street and set him on the opposite side walk. He died within minutes."

"Why didn't you take him into the hotel?"

"I do not know. It was an awful event, so perhaps we were not thinking."

"Who was driving the wagon?"

"Oh, nobody blames Estaban. He is a good driver. Jack always said so."

"Jack knew the driver?"

"Estaban worked for Jack."

"I'd like to meet this Estaban."

"He has gone to the San Cristobals with Juan, I am afraid."

"It just seems odd that he died surrounded by his friends, his doctor, one of his employees."

"It is strange but true."


	2. Chapter 2

"Who was that woman at the funeral?" Jolly asked Behar.

"Oh, I do not know her name. She is just some showgirl from the Cactus Dawn Saloon that knew Jack. You would only cause her heartache by talking to her."

Jolly spent the rest of the money Cobb had given him on the show at the Cactus, a seedy place with a large stage at one end of the barroom. The show was a particularly raunchy music hall performance with a row of dancing ladies in frilly corsets and stockings suggestive of under garments. The all-male audience got an unusually good look at the shape of their legs. The women tossed garters into the audience for their finale.

There was even a master of ceremonies who told scandalously racy jokes.

"Stop me if you know this one," said Mr. Yancy, slurring his words. It was a miracle that it was actually possible to understand him. "Wait, don't stop me. Brutus there is our bouncer. If you stop me you'll have to deal with him." There was a pause here so as to allow for the insertion of laughter, but none was forthcoming. Yancy pressed on.

"A rancher had a son and a daughter. Now his boy, Tim, was a beardless squirt, but his daughter, Ellie, was in the bloom of young womanhood, if you know what I mean."

This, at last, got a reaction from the men in the audience, if only inarticulate hoots, grunts and guffaws. Yancy continued, "So the rancher put out the word that he needed a hired hand. Well, to make a long story short, he settled on a strappin' fella named Zeke, and Zeke worked hard, and things went well for a while.

"Well sir, one day the rancher took young Tim out mending fences, and as it was a good-size spread, they camped out under the stars one night. In the morning, the rancher taught his boy a new trick. The man pulled down his britches and pissed on the fire until half of it went out. He offered the honor of quenchin' the other half of the fire to his boy, who hauled down his own pants and wet the rest of the fire until it was out. His father laughed until he noticed a puzzled look on the boy's face, and he said, 'What's the matter, son?'

"The boy says, 'Pa, is that the reason why people would take down their britches in the middle of the day?' And his Pa said, 'Well, that's one reason. Why do you ask?' And Tim says, 'Because Zeke and Ellie told me to get out in the barn one day, but I spied on 'em just for a minute, and the last thing I seen was they pulled down their britches, but I didn't see no fires to put out nowhere.'"

This met with uproarious laughter that peeled from one end of the room to the other. When it finally died down, Yancy said, "Thank you kindly, gentlemen. Now it is a great privilege for the Cactus Dawn Hotel to offer you a spectacle that comes to us all the way from the mysterious Orient: Lady Chang Lee and her Chinese fan dance. Give her a big hand. Come on! Those of you still playing cards will appreciate everyone's hands being above the table at least for a moment."

To thunderous applause mixed with whoops and hollers, Yancy dashed off the stage and was replaced by a woman in a red silk dress and snow white sash with black hair piled high on her head. She had two large fans with butterflies painted on them. As she positioned herself in the center of down-stage, Jolly studied her. He was not fooled by her jet black wig or exaggerated makeup. She was not really Asian at all, but presumably a white woman made up to look oriental. Then there was the rather telling clue of the same white hairpin he had seen poking out of that blue bonnet earlier that day. She was, in fact, the blonde in the blue dress he had seen at Jack's funeral.

Jolly had seen things in his time and regarded himself as a man of the world, but he felt hot watching her performance. He was conscious of having to peel his collar away from the skin of his neck, so stimulating was the sight of Lady Lee's white bloomers underneath that red kimono and strategically behind one or the other of the fans. A piano player accompanied her with something that sounded pastoral but did not necessarily suggest the Orient.

As an aside, he prided himself on knowing the origin of the word "kimono." He had been following very closely Commodore Perry's expedition to Japan, and he had read what few books he could find about the secretive Pacific nation. He knew that Lady Lee's act was inauthentic, mixing as it did items of clothing and accessories that were Chinese, Japanese and American, but he understood that nobody else was likely to take notice, and even he did not care, once he got a glimpse of Lady Lee's bare ankles, especially after she kicked off her matching red slippers.

Jolly waited by the stage door, barely dodging Yancy, who suggested that if Jolly was waiting for him, he was "barking up the wrong tree." Finally, "Lady Chang Lee" came out. She had completely transformed herself into a vision of respectable American womanhood. She was wearing a decent gray dress with a high collar and a modest hat held in place by that ivory hairpin. She was blonde again, but he wondered whether she had not removed all of her make-up because, her olive-complexion seemed slightly darker than he recalled from the funeral.

Falling in beside her, Jolly said tentatively, "Miss Lee? You don't know me, but I was a friend of Jack." He paused to let that sink in. She said nothing, but eyed him up and down out of the corner of her eye. As she made no objection, he went on. "I saw you at the funeral this morning."

"I didn't notice much," she said.

"I don't expect you did, Miss Lee."

"'Chang Lee' is my stage name. My real name is Carrie Shaw."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Shaw. My name is Jolly Norton."

"Jolly Norton? Now that is a name that Jack mentioned once or twice. You were in the Mexican War together, weren't you?"

"That's right. The twenty-fifth infantry regiment. Together we went down the Mississippi to New Orleans and enlisted. That was a great adventure."

"What was Jack like back then?"

"He was happy and carefree, of course."

"That was Jack," she agreed.

"He taught me how to stow away on the river boat and to steal food when we were hungry, which I know doesn't sound very honorable, but, believe me, we were very hungry, and Jack would always figure out ways to cook eggs by sneaking into the engine room and roasting the eggs in the coals. You know, he never lost an egg that way?"

"That sounds like him, all right," she allowed. "Where are you staying?"

"The Sheriff has me set up at the Silver Slipper. I think he has a stake in the place."

"You haven't been wrong yet," she said. "The Sheriff a friend of yours, too?"

"No. Just met him this morning at the funeral."

"So he took you under his wing, did he?"

"Not so I appreciate it. You see, I quit my job at the St. Louis Dispatch a week ago and came to Santa Fe because Jack offered me a job. Nobody's even sure what he wanted me to do, but he sent me a ticket and everything. So I came here with only ten cents left in my pocket. Then the Sheriff put me up and offered to pay for my ticket back to St. Louis."

"I guess he wants you out of town as soon as possible," she observed shrewdly.

"That's what I thought, and the more questions I asked about Jack, the more he seemed to want to manage my swift exit from town."

"Yeah, that sounds like Sheriff Cobb."

"Do you know him?"

"Only as well as I have to and no more."

"Like that, is it?"

"Yes."

"See here. Sheriff Cobb says Jack was mixed up in some bad business. I mean, I guess maybe he was selling liquor to the Indians, or maybe swindling a few prospectors out of their silver mines over a game of cards. Do you know anything about Jack being caught up in anything like that?"

"That sounds about right. To tell you the truth, I never knew exactly what kind of business Jack was in, only that he always had a fine suit, a clean shave and as many coins as he needed." She paused and smiled for the first time. "He made me laugh. Didn't he make you laugh, Jolly? Ha! From your name he would have failed miserably if he didn't make you laugh."

"Yes, in fact, he gave me the name 'Jolly' when we were growing up in St Louis."

"What's your real name?"

"I've almost forgotten it. It's Jabez. Stuffy old name from back East. My grandfather's name, really."

"It's a strong honest name," she said. Then she smiled and added, "but I like Jolly better. It suits you."

"I'm pleased you think so. Say, I'm not sure where we're going, but may I escort you to your destination?"

"I'm having a drink at the New Orleans. Would you join me?"

"I am afraid that I am short on funds at the moment."

"You will be my guest. Amos is the bar tender there. If I tell him you are my friend, he won't charge you a cent."

Amos turned out to be a light-skinned man of African descent. Jolly became aware that most of the staff at the New Orleans was either black, like Amos and Bijou, Mexican like the man tending the other end of the lengthy, mirror-backed bar, or else Indian like the man mopping the floor in back where there were more tables and chairs for when the saloon was fuller. It was about eight o'clock. Jolly wondered when the place was most full—earlier than this or later.

Carrie had not always been a showgirl but had grown up on a plantation in Louisiana where she read most of Shakespeare's plays in her father's library and knew most of them by heart. Her real ambition was to play Juliette and Ophelia, Shakespeare's tragic heroines, and Portia in "The Merchant of Venice." She also hoped to play all three of King Lear's daughters. "Not at the same time," she joked. When she matured, she hoped to play Lady Macbeth. The only work she could find, though, was in the less respectable avenues of show business. She had performed her Lady Chang Lee act in Texas as well as New Mexico, having last resided in Albuquerque.

Between sips of Amos's good whiskey—it had a pleasing nutty flavor— Jolly reminiscenced about Jack with his new friend, Carrie. He also looked around the room at the patrons. They were a decidedly mixed lot. There were a couple of Anglos, drinking, smoking and playing cards, but there were also plenty of Mexicans. Jolly soon perceived, too, that there were a number of men who fell into neither category and seemed to be Creoles. It was not in vain that this hotel was called "The New Orleans."

While some of these New Orleanean gentlemen easily passed for white—and some, of course, were—others did not. The word Creole was ambiguous in New Orleans. Some Creoles were descendants of white French settlers, like Madame Beauregard, while others were descendants of slaves, although many of these had been freedmen for generations and lived as much in culture and luxury as their white counterparts. He noted, too, that the Creoles of both colors were the ones who were winning the most at cards, and some wore guns that seemed as decorative as they were functional. One had the most iridescent pearl handles on his two revolvers.

"I'm surprised that you don't have a pair yourself," said Carrie.

"A pair of what?"

"Those six-shooters you're admiring. I couldn't help but notice you staring at Marcel's double rig over there."

"Oh, in St. Louis I never had a need for a gun."

"You might remember that you're not in St. Louis anymore."

"I keep on realizing that."

"Good evening, Jolly," said a voice behind him. Jolly turned to see Señor Behar.

"Señor Behar," said Carrie. "How nice to see you."

"And you, my dear Señorita Shaw," he said. Jolly made a mental note that Behar had earlier lied that he could not remember Carrie's name. He wagered with himself that Behar knew her stage name, as well.

"I brought Señorita Shaw some money that Jack said to give her with his dying breath," Behar explained.

"Seems Jack was pretty loquacious for a dying man," said Jolly.

"So I see that you two have become acquainted," said Behar, ignoring Jolly's sarcastic remark.

"When you've been friends with Jack," said Jolly wistfully, "it's as if you know everyone he's ever known."

"Someone has had enough to drink," said Behar to Carrie. He looked at Amos, who looked away noncommittally.

"Don't listen to him," Jolly said to Amos. "Keep 'em coming."

"I too think you have had enough," said Carrie with what seemed like genuine concern. She put her hand over Jolly's glass as Amos was about to pour. "After all, we've got to get you back to your hotel."

"The Silver Slipper, isn't it?" asked Behar.

"All right, all right," said Jolly. "I know when I'm out-voted." He looked at Carrie and said pointedly, "Even if women don't have the vote."

"Not yet," said Carrie.

"But I've got to go out back first," said Jolly. "See a man about a horse, if you know what I mean."

"Say no more," said Carrie. "Go. Scoot."

Behind the saloon, there was a set of three outhouses. Jolly gave his selection some thought. The proudest of the three had a faded layer of pink paint and a heart-shaped peep hole, while the two on either side of it were worn and warped as if there had never been a layer of paint on either. They both had crescent moons for peep holes. He assumed that the proud one was for the ladies, but had no idea what if any distinction accrued to each of the other two. It occurred to him with some anxiety that there was some caste distinction, but he then thought that this should not make a difference to him.

Though he knew that not all of his fellow Free-Soilers necessarily had enlightened views on race—sharing only an opposition to the institution of slavery and those who promoted it—Jolly was, in his heart, drawn to the notion of racial equality, though he was often afraid to voice his minority opinion in polite society, let alone the society of rough men with rough opinions. It was just that a man's views might be highly humanistic in the abstract, but were never so tested as when he was choosing to relieve himself where men of all backgrounds had been before.

As he was emerging from the outhouse on the left—having been unable to detect any distinction— Bijou stepped out of the shadows and walked up to his face. He was startled and embarrassed because he had just been in the privy, but he recovered himself.

"Mr. Jolly," she said. "I wish I could have told you more about what happened when Mr. Jack was run down."

"What is it?"

"There was three men that carried the body across the street."

"You mean Doc helped carry him?"

"No, sir," she insisted. "Doc came by later. It was three men that was there right away, not just two. Everybody says it was two, so I agreed with that, but it ain't true."

"What did he look like, this third man?"

"I didn't see. I was upstairs, and they was too far away. Besides, his back was to me the whole time."

"Did you tell the sheriff any of this?"

"No, no, no. Bijou don't get involved with the law." She shook her head emphatically, and kept shaking it until he asked another question.

"Did you tell anybody else you saw a third man?"

"No. Well, only one."

"Who?"

Just then a voice said, "Bijou, have you turned down the beds in the rooms?" It was a woman's voice, husky and accented in the French of the Delta. Madame stepped into the light, walking carefully since the hem of her full dress was in danger of drifting through the dirt of the backyard. Her little dog followed at her heels, running in little circles.

"No, Madame," said Bijou, hanging her head.

"Set about it then, silly girl."

"Oui, Madame," said Bijou, and she hurried into the building, Madame's dog yipping at her as she went.

"So, you were a friend of Jack," said Madame. It was certain that this was not a question.

"Yes, did you know him, too?"

"Perhaps not as well as you. You have been asking a lot of questions about him. Do you not think that your friend's reputation might be dragged through the mud if people ask too many questions?"

"I'm just not satisfied with the answers that I've been getting."

"Like what?"

"Some say that he died instantly while others say that he talked to his friends. That he even made plans for a couple of absent friends before he died."

"So?"

"Well, was he dead instantly or did he live for a while?"

"These are questions you should ask Doc."

"I'd like to."

"Well, do you play poker?"

"I am not sure I follow you."

"It is a simple question. Do you play?"

"In fact, Jack was the one who taught me to play."

"Then you should come to the back room. Doc plays here every Wednesday, and I think there is an opening at the table tonight."

"I would be obliged if you would show me the way."

"Come then, monsieur."

She led him back into the hotel by the same door he had exited. The door opened into the same corridor that he had used to exit. It led back to the main bar, but there were several doors along this hallway. Madame went to one of them and knocked three times. She seemed to use a rhythm of one knock followed by a pause and then two more knocks without a pause between them. Presently, the door opened and Señor Behar peered around the door's edge. He saw Madame, and then he saw Jolly and broke into a smile.

"Mr. Norton was wondering if he could join your game."

"Of course," said Behar. He opened the door widely so that Jolly could see, through the haze of cigar smoke hanging in the room, there were five men seated around a table. Jolly explained that he was short of cash, but Behar offered to stake him. Madame picked up her circling dog so that it didn't go into the room, and then she went back to her barroom, leaving the men to their vices.

Jolly took the only empty chair while Behar introduced him to the group. As it happened, everyone who had been at the scene of Jack's fatal accident was at the table, including Doc and the man named Reddeck who was supposedly out of town only a few hours ago. Estaban was missing but there was a new fellow in the mix. He was a dark-haird Anglo with a face full of stubble. He held a stubby cigar clenched between his teeth. Behar said his name was Dunford. His eyes were mean-looking, and he wore a seedy dark suit and top hat. Unlike everyone else at the table, he left his hat on. He was the only one at the table that Jolly didn't know to have a connection to Jack, but he could not be sure of that.

It was Doc's turn to deal the cards, and while everyone else studied his fresh hand, Jolly eyed the dealer.

"Doctor Pepperidge, we haven't met, but I understand you were the personal physician of my friend, Jack Norwalk."

"Oh, yes," Doc said. "It was a great tragedy. He was a fine man."

"Well, I was hoping you could enlighten me as to the circumstances of his death. Did he die immediately?"

"That's hard to say. You see, he was already dead when I arrived."

"But could he have lived for a few moments before you got there?"

"That is difficult to say."

"Hypothetically?"

"Hypothetically, it is difficult to say."

"Are you here to play cards or grill the Doc?" asked Dunford gruffly.

"I'll raise you two dollars," said Jolly in answer, and his coins clinked as they hit the pile in the middle of the table.

"I'll see that," said Reddeck.

A commotion outside was followed by a scream. The men at the table sat and looked at each other.

"Isn't anybody going to check to see what that was?" asked Jolly.

"It could be anything," said the Doc.

Behar smiled and scoffed a little. "We are not going to leave our money on the table and go out to see, because we are afraid that our money might not be here when we return." He chuckled as if he appreciated that men's foible are truly petty, but neither did he propose to get up and go out.

Jolly looked at each face, considering the options. "I suppose that I am the only stranger here. Since Señor Behar staked me, my money is really his anyway, so I'll go. If it's anything that concerns any of you, I'll let you know."

"A most judicious decision," said Behar smiling. "I see why Jack spoke so highly of you."

Jolly rose from the table and left the room. He turned down the hallway and entered the barroom. The place was twice as crowded as when he had gone out to the backyard. People were gathered around a spot in the middle of the room. Jolly pushed through the crowd and found Bijou laid out on a blanket on the floor, presumably having been carried on it from somewhere else. Jolly had seen someone dead from a broken neck before, and he recognized it.

Carrie was distraught and Jolly gathered that she was the one who had screamed. He suppressed an impulse to comfort her. Madame Beauregard stood by a table holding her dog and looking as though nothing troubled her more than the fact that she now had no one to finish turning down the guests' beds.


	3. Chapter 3

Jolly considered calling for the Doc, but Bijou was passed the point of needing him. He wondered whether Doc would find it difficult to say whether Bijou was dead, or whether he would be able to tell any more about the cause of death than Jolly had already surmised.

"Has anyone gone for the Sheriff?" Jolly asked the crowd.

"I sent Amos for him," said Madame with utter composure, but she fitfully stroked her dogs head, which Jolly detected for the first time as a tell that Madame was not feeling as composed as she sounded.

"Where'd you come from?" asked an inebriated man with walrus mustaches.

"He was playing cards in back with Doc and the others," said Madame.

"Oh, yeah?" said the man. Dressed like a cowboy, he drew his words out in a voice that was hoarse with trail dust.

The door swung open, and Sheriff Cobb and Deputy Mike walked in. They looked around and then made a beeline for the body.

"What happened here?" asked Cobb.

"Somebody killed this here colored girl," said the man with the walrus mustaches.

"Who are you?" asked Cobb.

"Wainright's the name." He handed Cobb a piece of paper.

"This is a warrant for a fugitive slave," said Cobb. "A light skinned one. So I don't suppose you were looking for Bijou."

"No, but I always got my eye open for possibles," Wainright said.

"I bet you do," said Cobb.

"She was my servant," said Madame.

"Can you prove it?" demanded Wainright.

Cobb looked nearly as irritated as Madame.

"I don't have to," said Madame. "Her family and my family have been together for three generations."

"In New Orleans?" asked Wainright.

"Yes. So?"

"Well, funny you should mention New Orleans, because the gal I'm lookin' for come from Louisiana, too," Wainright concluded.

"This palaver don't have nothin' to do with the murder at hand," snapped Cobb.

Wainright pointed at Jolly. "He been sniffin' 'round that girl all night. Saw 'em out back by the privy."

"That so?" said Cobb, raising an eyebrow.

"That's only half true," said Madame. "I seen 'em talking, too, but I sent my girl inside to turn down the beds upstairs, and Mr. Norton was never out of my sight or that of Doc Pepperidge and the others in the back room until she was found like this out on the sidewalk."

"Are you saying she was upstairs and she fell down to the sidewalk?" Cobb asked.

"Fell," said Jolly, "or was pushed out the window."

"Where was you?" asked Wainright. He was looking directly at Madame. Up to now, Jolly would have suspected her, too, but Wainright seemed to accuse somebody indiscriminately of something with every other word out of his mouth.

"I was in the saloon," she said. "I've been here ever since I showed Mr. Norton to the back room. I hadn't seen Bijou since Mr. Norton and I were talking to her out back."

"Are you providin' the services of your colored girl to payin' gentlemen?" asked Wainright.

Madame's face became red and her eyes narrowed. She opened her mouth, but Sheriff Cobb interrupted.

"I've had enough of your mouth, mister," said Cobb to Wainright. "Not another word out of you till I ask for it. Got that?"

"Yes, Sheriff," said Wainright, but with a surly tone.

"Now, Mike, go back and get those fellas out of the back room, especially Doc Pepperidge." Cobb seemed to spit Doc's name as if he was angry with him. Jolly guessed that it was because Doc was the coroner, and yet he was nowhere to be seen at the scene of a murder a few yards from his card game. "Does anybody know what happened?" asked Cobb. "See anything?" Cobb looked around. No one spoke.

"Sheriff, Bijou had told me something about Jack's so-called accident," said Jolly, "and she was just about to tell me something else."

"She witnessed the accident?" Cobb seemed amazed. "Why didn't I know that? Where is that damned coroner?"

Jolly looked behind him and saw Mike with the men from the game in tow. Doc was among them. The coroner exchanged a glance with Behar, and Jolly could have sworn that Behar then exchanged a look with the man called Dunford.

"What did she tell you?" Cobb asked.

"She said she saw three men—not two—carry that body across the street."

"Three men. Who was the third one?"

"She didn't know. She was gonna tell me more, but Madame Beauregard interrupted us."

"Sheriff, are you seriously gonna take the word of a colored girl about anything?" said Wainright.

"What did I goddamn tell you," said Cobb evenly. Wainright closed his mouth but looked disgusted. Cobb turned back to Jolly. "You have no idea what else she was gonna tell you?"

"Only that she told someone else besides me about the third man. She might have been about to tell me who."

"About my warrant," said Wainright to Cobb. Cobb looked at him as if he would just as soon shoot him, but he relented.

"Give me a minute. Madame, is everyone who was in the saloon accounted for, so far as you know?"

Madame looked around for a moment, and then she said, "Estaban was in the saloon and then went upstairs. Now, he's nowhere in sight." Jolly was aware that Carrie was also missing, but he thought better of mentioning it. He didn't see why she would have any motive, and he did not want to cast suspicion on her.

"Mike, start looking for Estaban," Cobb ordered. "I want to talk to him as soon as he's found. Deputize as many folks as you need to, but I want Estaban alive. Got that? Doc, I'm going back to my office with this feller. Do you think you can handle the, what's the word, the forensics of this here case?"

"Certainly, Sheriff," said Doc.

Cobb left with Wainright.

Mike directed everybody to go in different directions to look for Estaban. He wisely made sure that each search party was led by someone who knew Estaban by sight. He, himself, led one up Main Street. Jolly joined a group that was led by Amos, who seemed to have some status in the community, especially among the Mexicans and Creoles. They followed Amos down Main Street.

Just down from the saloon, Dunford, from the poker game, came abreast of Jolly, and then stepped in front of him. Jolly stopped short.

"You stole money from the kitty back there."

Jolly was nonplussed for a moment. Then he said, "Mister, you're mistaken."

Dunford replied, "Are you calling me a liar?"

Jolly said, "I'm calling you mistaken."

Dunford stepped back three paces, folding the hem of his coat back from his holstered six-iron.

People, including Carrie, who had suddenly reappeared, gathered on the sidewalks to watch, though some sensibly stepped into doorways or behind sturdy objects in case of stray bullets.

"Mister," said Jolly, "I don't have a gun."

Dunford, having planned for that possibility—or perhaps counted on it—threw a pistol at Jolly's feet.

"Pick it up," said Dunford.

"How do I know that it's even loaded?" said Jolly.

"Now you're calling me a cheat?" demanded Dunford.

"At this point, your hurt feelings are not my main concern," said Jolly, "but I'm still saying that you seem to be easily mistaken."

"I'll check whether it's loaded," said Carrie, stepping off the sidewalk and into the danger zone on the street. Dunford said nothing but stared at Jolly.

Carrie picked up the pistol and checked it rather expertly. Jolly wondered how many other hidden talents this woman might have. "It's loaded," she said. She began to hand it to Jolly.

"Throw it back on the ground, lady," said Dunford.

"That isn't fair," Carrie said.

"Nevertheless," Dunford said.

Carrie took a step toward Jolly and dropped it closer to his feet, but before she stepped back toward the sidewalk she passed close enough to hand Jolly a pearl-handled derringer. "I know you ain't use to guns," she whispered, "but at least you'll have a chance."

Jolly took it and let his gun hand rest behind his leg.

"Now, pick it up," said Dunford.

"No need," said Jolly. "I got one." He let his arm drift slightly outward to reveal the derringer.

Dunford glanced at Carrie and cussed her out, but in the next moment he drew his gun on Jolly, who raised the derringer and fired once, killing Dunford before he could get off a shot.

After a pause to be sure that the shooting was over, the crowd began milling about and muttering. Amos and one of the Creole gamblers checked Dunford's body and kicked aside his gun.

Amos glanced up at Jolly in wonder and spoke for the first time in Jolly's presence. "One bullet," he said. "Straight through the heart."

Carrie came to Jolly and he handed back her derringer. "I thought you didn't know how to use a gun," she said.

"Said I don't carry one," Jolly replied. "Never said I don't know how to use one."

When Deputy Mike arrived, he called off the futile hunt for Estaban, but not before he determined that Dunford's killing was justified.

Over Carrie's shoulder, Jolly saw Sheriff Cobb approach with the slave catcher, Wainright, at his side.

"It was a justifiable homicide, Sheriff," said Mike.

Madame Beauregard stepped in front of Cobb. "Everyone here will swear to it," she said.

"Madame Beauregard," said Cobb touching the brim of his hat. "I don't doubt it. Who shot him?"

"I did, Sheriff," said Jolly.

"Well, is that a fact?" said Cobb. He eyed Jolly as if he appreciated something he hadn't seen before.

"I didn't have a choice," added Jolly.

"I don't doubt it," Cobb repeated. "I always figured Dunford would either hang or get killed trying." Then, with Wainright in tow, he approached Carrie. "Miss Shaw." He held up a circular with a drawing of a woman's face printed on it.

Jolly looked at it and was stunned by the resemblance. It looked remarkably like Carrie. The only thing that seemed at all wrong about it was the nose. Carrie had a slightly broad nose, but the drawing exaggerated it. It definitely made her look more African than she did. The absence of coloring in the picture paradoxically washed out how white Carrie actually looked. Above the picture, in bold black ink, it said "Fugitive Slave. Reward for Capture and Return." Below the picture was a description that included, "Blonde hair, olive skin. Looks and sounds White."

"This is you, Miss Shaw," said Cobb.

It wasn't a question, but she quietly answered, "Yes."

"Under the provisions of the United States Fugitive Slave Act, I'm going to have to take you into custody, Miss Shaw, until this gentleman can return you to your lawful owner in Louisiana."

"Ain't no call to keep calling this slave girl 'Miss'," said Wainright.

"You will allow me to do my job as I want to," said Cobb evenly without taking his eyes off of Carrie. "This is not part of the job I signed on to do."

"Oh, but it is," said Wainright. "This is a federal law. You have to comply."

""You disgust me!" said Jolly, unable to control himself any longer. "Your sort talk about states' rights but this Fugitive Slave Law violates our state's rights. Why should Missouri or, or New Mexico have to enforce the laws of Louisiana? This isn't a slave territory."

"Actually," said Wainright, "whether New Mexico or Missouri are going to be slave states is unsettled, but since this is a territory of the United States at this time, federal law is surely supreme."

"All right, that's enough, you two," said Cobb. "Miss Shaw, you're going to have to come to the jail with me." Then he said to Jolly, "Mr. Norton, you had better come along, too."

"What for?" asked Jolly.

Cobb looked him straight in the face. "You been in town for a day, and already you have started a fuss about the accidental death of a local crook…"

"I still haven't seen any evidence that he was a crook," said Jolly, "and I'm beginning to doubt that it was an accident."

"…You got into a gunfight and killed a man…"

"He started it!"

"…there's been a murder and you've obstructed the carrying out of a federal law."

"A law that by all lights should be unconstitutional!" said Jolly.

"Now I would prefer not to have to arrest you just to bring you in for a chat," continued Cobb calmly, "but if you give me no choice, I got at least three reasons right there to take you in."

Jolly sighed and nodded. Carrie next surprised Cobb by handing him her derringer, grip first. He hesitated before taking it.

"Any more weapons I should know about, Miss?" Cobb said.

"Not unless you count my hairpin," she said, touching the ivory stick in her blonde pompadour.

"No, Miss," said Cobb. "That won't be necessary." He offered his arm to Carrie. She took it, and he led her toward the jail. Wainright and Jolly fell in behind them.

"What is wrong with this sheriff?" muttered Wainright. "Is that any way to treat a fugitive slave? Escorting her to jail without manacles, as if she's a lady?"

"She is a lady," said Jolly.

At the jail, Mike was pacing, frustrate that he had to call off the fruitless search for Estaban.

"I got something else for you to do," said Cobb. He ordered Mike to put Carrie in the cell and guard her.

"What's Miss Shaw done?" asked Mike, bewildered.

"She's a fugitive slave," said Wainright. "You people can't even see one under you damn noses."

"No call to use that kind of language in front of a lady," said Mike.

"She's not…!" cried Wainright, but he looked at Jolly before he finished the sentence. Jolly realized that he was probably shooting daggers from eyes at Wainright, and the slave catcher must surely have seen it.

After Mike took Carrie to the cell, Cobb said to Wainright, "You can pick her up when its daylight. I presume you have arrangements."

"I got a wagon."

"All right then," said Cobb.

"I'd like to help guard the prisoner," said Wainright.

"Mike and I can do our jobs fine without your help, and I think I can speak for Mike when I say we could both do without your company for the next few hours left in the night. Anyway, you ought to get some sleep if you're going to travel tomorrow."

Wainright bristled, but apparently could not argue against the need for sleep. He told Cobb he would be at the Cactus Dawn and said good night.

"So what did you want to talk to me about?" said Jolly when Wainright had gone.

"It's not so much what I need to talk to you about as what I have to show you," said Cobb. He got out a sheaf of documents with official-looking stamps on them. They were printed but with handwritten information filling in the blanks. Some of the handwriting was crossed out and overwritten as if corrections had been made. There were also reports about prospectors whose murders had been made to look like accidents or the work of Apaches, just about one for each mine that had been transferred from the deceased to either Jack, Behar, Reddeck or Doc.

"What's all this?"

"These are claims and deeds to mines in the San Cristobal Mountains west of here," said Cobb. He proceeded to lay out evidence that Jack was involved in the murder of the mine owners and the appropriation of their property. If he had not died accidentally, he would have been arrested and tried for murder and theft. As he pored over the documents, Jolly had to admit that there was enough evidence to have hanged Jack. There was also the matter of the mysterious disappearance of the assayor, the man who was charged with recording mining rights. He disappeared the same day that Jack was killed, and Cobb suspected that he had been taking bribes from Jack and the others to overlook irregularities in the changes of ownership in the deeds to the mines.

"That's not all," said Cobb. "Here's a report from a U.S. Army Captain name of Canby that says Jack Norwalk was selling guns and ammunition to the Navaho and Apache."

"Liquor, as well, I suppose," said Jolly, though he didn't really care anymore. It was like the old saying that if a man commits murder and robbery, lying and cheating can't be far behind. He knew that Jack had already done the latter things long ago. "Looks like you have evidence against the others, too."

"You're right about that," said Cobb. "We're about two inches from arresting Behar and Reddeck, and Doc, too. I'd appreciate it if you could keep that under your hat."

"You don't have to convince me that they're crooked," said Jolly. "I had a suspicion that Doc and Behar put Dunford up to trying to kill me tonight."

"That a fact?" said Cobb.

"Well, I can't prove it," said Jolly. "It's a solid feeling, though, the more I think about it."

"There's one other thing," said Cobb. "This might make you hate your friend a little less since I notice you got abolitionist tendencies."

"I usually keep them to myself. Tonight I had an uncharacteristic outburst."

"Don't apologize."

"I don't suppose that I was."

"Well, I should appologize. I am the sheriff, and I have to enforce laws whether I like them or not, but you are entitled to your opinion. You want some whiskey? I think I got a bottle." He opened his desk drawer, and pulled out a bottle. He picked up a tin coffee cup, dumped out the dregs in a wastepaper basket and poured himself a generous drink. He handed the bottle to Jolly and began taking big sips from the cup. Jolly took a swig from the bottle. It was strong. Not as good as Amos's stuff, but strong. He realized that he needed a drink more than he had known.

"Just so you don't think your friend Jack was all bad," Cobb continued. Then he thought about it. "Well, he pretty much was, but he purchased the freedom of a number of slaves. Mostly from the Indians. You know that slavery in New Mexico is older than us, older than the Mexicans and the Spanish before them. Indians have made slaves of their prisoners since time immemorial. It's one of the reasons that New Mexico might go for slavery in the end. There are still slaves of all races in this territory, including whites among the Indians."

Cobb took a gulp from his cup and reached out his hand. Jolly gave him the bottle. Cobb poured himself an even more generous drink and handed back the bottle. "You know, Estaban used to be a slave to the Apache. Lived with them since he was a boy. Not a drop of Apache blood in him, but he speaks their language as well as he speaks Spanish or English. Better. I reckon he is mighty grateful to Jack for his freedom, though, and he was consequently loyal. That's why it still bothers me that Estaban was the one that run Jack down. Don't see how he could live with himself.

"Anyway, your friend Jack didn't help slaves for the benefit of his soul, exactly. Mostly he took Indians out of slavery so that they could work for him, mining and helping him run guns. To be fair, he paid them. Not much, but these were people who never got paid before, so they appreciated it, I'm sure.

"He also helped Miss Shaw. She had papers that showed her to be born white. I now realize those papers were forged, and Jack Norwalk got them for her."

"What makes you so sure?"

"He did it for other people who worked for him. Like I said, he didn't do things out of the goodness of his soul. He got something from her in exchange for what he gave her, too. Oh, don't get your dander up, Jolly. I don't mean he just used her like you think. I saw the way he was with her, and I'm sure he loved her. Love. In my experience, love don't mean it ain't selfish to do absolutely anything for your loved one."

"Can I talk to her?"

"Miss Shaw? Sure, if she's not fast asleep."

"I don't think I would be," said Jolly.

And she wasn't. Jolly found Mike fast asleep, though, in a chair by the outer door, with a St. Louis Dispatch in his lap. She, on the other hand, was standing in the cell, looking at the wall. She seemed entranced as if by a single point on the brick surface that would have been invisible to anyone else.

"Can I do anything for you?" Jolly asked. She turned around slowly. She looked composed. "I wish I could help," he added.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I guess I've felt it since Jack died, that I wasn't long for this town. You know how sometimes your life seems to drift from one thing to another without a real ending to one phase before the next one starts? But other times it seems as if a chapter clearly ends before another is about to begin."

"Kind of going backward for you," said Jolly before he regretted saying it. "Sorry."

"No, I have to face the future," she said, "even if it is, as you rightly say, a big step backward."

"I have to ask," said Jolly. "Did you know about Jack's business? The mines, the murders, the guns?"

"I tried not to know for the longest time," was all she said.

"I guess we both know how it can still hurt when someone we loved has died, in spite of what he was," said Jolly. He chuckled softly to himself.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Something Sheriff Cobb said. Love can be selfish. I guess we still love Jack for how he made us feel in spite of what he did. Losing him through some crazy accident still seems wrong."

"Who knows if it really was an accident?" she said.

Jolly suddenly looked at her, but she had turned away from him again, and he couldn't see her face. "You're the one Bijou told about the third man," said Jolly. "Do you know who it is?" She didn't reply.

Suddenly, they heard a yipping dog in the street outside the bars on the window of the cell.

"Is that…" Jolly listened carefully. "Is that Madame Beauregard's dog outside your cell?"

Carrie nodded absently. "She tries to shelter that mutt, but he gets out sometimes. I don't know why he ventures out. The little fellow is so scared of everything. You know the only people he was never afraid of were Madame and Bijou and Jack. Can you imagine that? As ruthless as Jack could be, he could also make creatures that had reason not to trust anyone, nevertheless trust him." She paused and then added, "I guess that doesn't just describe the dog. It describes me, too."

"Can I see you in the morning before you go?" asked Jolly suddenly.

"Better if you don't," she said. "I got a new life, and I better make as clean a break as I can."

Jolly nodded. "But I won't say good bye," he said. "I'll just say, good night."

"Good night, Jolly."

As Jolly left the jail, Cobb was about to wake Mike before going home himself. After leaving the jail, the lawman and the former newspaper reporter went in opposite directions. Cobb owned the Silver Slipper but didn't sleep there.

On his way back to the Silver Slipper, Jolly heard the dog continuing its yipping.

A little inebriated from Cobb's whiskey, Jolly turned and addressed the dog. "You're goin' the wrong way, you mangy, sawed-off mutt. The New Orleans is in the other direction, so don't follow me." He continued walking but he heard the dog close behind.

Somebody opened a window and held out a lantern calling, "Shut up you drunk. People are trying to sleep. And make that damn dog of yours shut up, too."

"Not my dog," declared Jolly. "He only loves Madame Beauregard and two dead people, including Jack Norwalk. Jack is no longer…."

At that moment, the lantern from the upper window illuminated the doorway to the apothecary across the street. And there, emerging from a shadow, was Jack Norwalk, the little dog furiously racing between and around his pant legs.


	4. Chapter 4

As Jolly tried to cross the street, a buckboard with a big "S.C." on its side rolled by before Jolly could get across. Jack was nowhere to be seen. The dog ran down the street barking after the wagon. Jolly thought that Jack must have jumped onto the wagon while it was moving. It was a pretty good trick, but he knew that it was the kind of trick that Jack could pull off.

He didn't know where Cobb lived, but Mike would, so Jolly went back to the jail. He knew that something was obviously wrong as soon as he approached. The door to the office was wide open. Jolly went in, wishing he had a gun. It was quiet. The light was out. Jolly called out, "Mike?" There was no reply.

Jolly lit a lamp. It cast eerie shadows around the office. He eased into the cell area and found the empty cell's door hanging open. Mike was lying on the floor. Blood seeped from a cut on his head. "Mike!" said Jolly, and he knelt and tried to rouse the big deputy. Slowly, Mike began to groan and tried to sit up.

"Hold on, Mike. Just tell me what happened before you get up."

"I was dozing off, but I suddenly knew somebody was here. I opened my eyes just before Estaban hit me."

"Estaban was here?" said Jolly.

"Used the butt of his shotgun to hit me," said Mike. He looked up at Jolly and smiled. "Good thing I got a hard heard."

"I'll go get Sheriff Cobb," said Jolly. "Tell me where he lives."

"No need," said Cobb behind him. "What happened, Mike?"

"Sorry, boss," said Mike. "I let down my guard and…." He let his words trail off as he indicated the open cell door with his arm.

"I doubt that Miss Shaw gave you that gash," said Cobb. "Who broke her out?"

"Estaban," said Jolly. "And that's not all."

"That a fact?" said Cobb.

"I saw Jack just down the street, alive as you or me. That's why I came back here."

"You've had a lot to drink tonight. Sure you didn't see a ghost?" asked Cobb.

"I believe I saw Jack in the flesh."

"That can't be, Mr. Norton," said Mike. "You saw him buried just as we did."

"But did you look inside the coffin?" asked Jolly.

"Doc Pepperidge did," said Cobb. He thought a moment before he said, "Tell me exactly what you saw."

Jolly told them about Jack appearing when the man in the window held out his lamp, about Madame's little dog scampering around his feet and yipping, about the wagon that rumbled by before Jack disappeared, and the dog yipping after it.

"Tell me about the wagon?" asked Cobb.

"It was hard to see in the dark, but I think it was brown with red letters on the side."

"What letters?" asked Cobb.

"I think it was an 'S' and a 'C'. Is that important?" asked Jolly.

"Why, that wagon belonged to Jack," said Mike. He rubbed his head where he had been struck.

"It's the one that Estaban always rode, too," said Cobb.

"What do we do?" asked Mike.

"I'm going to wake that pissant Wainright and tell him we lost his prisoner. You're going to wake up those grave diggers and get them out to dig up that coffin and find out who's really in it."

"Now?" asked Mike.

"You better grab a shovel and help them," said Cobb to Mike. "That way it will go faster."

"I'm sorry I fouled things up, boss," said Mike, hanging his head.

"Never mind that now, son, we'll talk about it later. Just get the job at hand done, all right?"

"Yes, boss," said Mike contritely. With that he went out.

"You come with me," said Cobb to Jolly. But before he went out, Cobb went to the gun case and took two rifles and ammunition. He gave one of the rifles to Jolly. "I reckon you know how to use this."

"Everybody keeps forgetting that I was in the army," Jolly said, taking the rifle and putting ammunition in his coat pockets.

Shortly after dawn, Mike and the grave diggers rode in with the body of the city's chief assayer, who had also been in charge of deeds to mines. He had been to one buried in Jack's grave.

"Who do we arrest now?" asked Mike.

"Doc's not as nimble as the others, and I think he believes he's immune from prosecution," said Cobb. "He'll keep. But Jolly and I made some discreet inquiries around town, and nobody's seen Behar or Reddeck since last night. Their horses are gone, too. I think they've skedaddled, probably to wherever Jack is holed up."

"And they stole that slave," said Wainright indignantly. "She's probably in cahoots with them."

"Don't you think they either kidnapped her _or_ she's in cahoots? You can't have it both ways," said Jolly.

Wainright just glared at him.

"All right, gentlemen," said Cobb loudly, as if addressing a larger gathering. "I need to form a posse pronto. Are all those present ready to join me?"

They looked around at each other. Aside from Cobb, there was Wainright, Mike, Jolly, and the two gravediggers, who were named Emmett and Wash.

"I don't want this abolish to come with us," said Wainright. "He's probably in cahoots, too. He'd just as soon let that gal escape again."

"Jolly's gotta come with," said Cobb. "He knows Jack better 'n any of us."

"They got a big jump on us," said Jolly. "How can we hope to catch them?"

Emmett started laughing, and Wash chuckled instantly afterward.

"What's funny," asked Jolly.

"Sheriff Cobb is one of the best trackers in the whole territory," said Mike. He wasn't laughing.

The party of six men set out before seven. Cobb's eyes seemed to drift from the ground ahead of them to the horizon, scanning left and right, then back to the ground. The pace was slow but steady. After more than an hour, they entered a canyon. The Sheriff held up his arm and the posse stopped.

"It's just as we suspected," said Cobb. "That wagon passed through this canyon last night and, it headed straight for the Diablo silver mine. I'd bet my eyeteeth on it."

"Let's go after them," said Wainright. "What are we waiting for?"

"That," said Cobb, pointing toward a distant, tall mountain.

"What? I don't see nothing," said Wainright.

Mike got out a spyglass and held it up to his right eye. "Doggone, boss! I don't know how you do it. There's a little figure moving on the cliff of that hill up yonder, an' it looks upright to me. There's a man there. Probably a lookout."

Wash, who happened to be riding beside Jolly, leaned over and said, "Cobb used to scout for the army back in the day. Got the best eyesight I ever see'd."

"From now on we gotta stop riding out in the open and keep to the walls of the canyon," said Cobb.

They continued on for several miles, but it became difficult to stay under cover and still make good time. There was a small stream that, fortunately, had not dried up in the hot July sun, but they didn't dare expose themselves and water all of their horses at once, so they took turns watering the animals one at a time, preferring to do so at bends where it was harder they were out of the direct line of sight of the lookout. In the late afternoon, Cobb called a halt.

"Let's make camp," Cobb said. "Get some grub, get some shut-eye. No fires, though. We gotta wait for dark. Then we'll move again."

It was nearly nine o'clock when they moved. By the time they reached the mountain where Mike had said there was a lookout, it was pitch dark.

"The entrance to the mine is about a quarter mile up ahead," Mike told Jolly.

"Spread out," whispered Cobb, "but not too much. Jolly, you don't know this mountain, so you stick with Mike."

They moved over rocky ground, the elevation increasing by the minute. Jolly started to have to mind his footing and use his hands. The rifle he was caring had a sling that allowed him to put it across his back so he could use both hands to climb.

A little flash of fire to the right startled Jolly. He looked over and saw someone striking a match. Even in its dim flame, he could see Emmett's face as the flame lit the cigar clenched in his teeth.

Before Jolly could shout to him to put out the light, another flash of fire appeared in the air ahead of them. It became larger and brighter as it arced down and struck Emmett full in the chest. Jolly realized all of a sudden that this second fire had a straight dark tail that stuck out of Emmett as he let out a shriek and keeled over. He lay still despite the fire spreading over his chest and face. Jolly began to smell the odor of burning human flesh.

Cobb shouted, "Get down." Anyone who wasn't already flat on the earth got that way quickly. Jolly and Mike placed themselves behind an outcropping.

"It's Estaban," said Mike. "That half-Injun is good with a bow and arrow." Jolly remembered that he had been told that Estaban didn't have a single drop of Indian blood but had been raised from boyhood by the Apache. He did not correct Mike.

"We got you covered, Cobb," said a voice Jolly thought he had heard once, but he could not remember whose it was. "No way in or out now. You fellows should have stayed in town."

"Reddeck," said Mike. "He's a mean feller. Good with a gun or a knife. So they say."

"Are we going to outflank them?" asked Jolly.

"We're the furthest right, I think," said Mike. "Let's try it."

The two men moved rightward, slowly and carefully, trying not to make noise. Suddenly somebody uphill started shooting down at the rest of the party, but they were not shooting at Mike and Jolly. After a pause, the two men began climbing again.

Jolly listened to the gunfire and analyzed it. The skills he had learned half a decade ago came back in an instant. The shots sounded as if they were coming from muskets and occasionally a shotgun. Mike had said that Estaban hit him with the butt of a shotgun. Overall, the shots were sporadic but too close together to be one or two guns without fast reloading. There were at least half a dozen rifles. The trouble was that there were never more than two shots fired close together. Jolly realized that there were not a half-dozen men up there. Maybe as few as two or three, but they had plenty of rifles and maybe somebody reloading them for the shooters.

Jolly also began to see that there was a soft glow up ahead. It was some kind of lantern but hidden behind something so that it could not be seen directly. Just enough light for Reddeck and maybe Estaban to keep loading and shooting.

Closing in from the right, Jolly and Mike were clearly within yards of the entrance to the mine, a somewhat semicircle softly lit by indirect light from the lantern. No one was protecting their flank, though. Reddeck had bluffed them by saying that the posse was trapped and doomed. It was all a ruse. Jolly thought about all of the Indians and ex-slaves Jack was supposed to have employed at one time. Were many of them still around? Had they all run off once Jack's fortunes began to sink?

Mike, who was ahead of Jolly, opened fire first. Reddeck shot back, first with his rifle and then with his revolver. Mike had to reload and got down behind some rocks. Jolly fired his rifle and began reloading, too.

Jolly looked up and saw Estaban appear right in front of where Mike was reloading behind his cover. Nether man saw the other. Then Mike made a slight noise and Estaban tipped his head. He put his shotgun to his shoulder.

"Mike!" called Jolly. Jolly hurriedly finished loading his gun.

Estaban looked up and squinted into the murk in Jolly's direction. Jolly aimed and fired. Estaban reacted to the hit, turning sideways and triggering his gun. The flash and thunder went off harmlessly toward the ground closer to the mine entrance.

Just then, shots rang out behind Estaban just as he hit the earth. The shots were followed by cries of men that reminded Jolly of wounded men he had heard on the battlefield. He realized that Cobb and the others had outflanked the shooters on their left. Mike and Jolly rushed forward to join the rest of the posse. Four bodies around the entrance to the mine were still. There were two unknown Apache, Behar, and Estaban. Reddeck must have retreated into the mine.

They approached the entrance cautiously. No one knew whether Reddeck had gone deeply into the mine or had positioned himself just inside. Cobb put out their lanterns. It became quite dark.

"We're going in, gentlemen," Cobb whispered when everyone was gathered behind the wall the shooters had built from rocks of various sizes in front of the shaft. "Jolly, you and Wash enter the shaft on the right and keep up against the wall once you're inside. Mike and me are going in on the left."

"Where's Wainright?" asked Mike. Jolly had been wondering about that, too.

"He's looking for another shaft," said Cobb. "There's probably a back way these fellas might try to use for escape." Jolly told himself that Wainright was not as dumb as he looked.

Inside the mine, the party moved quietly and carefully inward and down, down, feeling along the granite-like walls. Jolly could see very little as he went. Then he saw lanterns being lit on the far side and realized that they were in an enormous room below ground. The shaft expanded and then led to two other, narrower shafts at the back. Cobb and Mike had found and lit lamps that the gang of criminals had been left behind.

Against one wall were several large stacks of wooden boxes, long and wide. There were stacks of barrels against another wall. Cobb began opening the long crates with a found crowbar. Mike took the lid off of one of the barrels.

"Muskets," said Cobb.

"Powder," said Mike. Then Mike paused, looked off toward some corner and slowly moved that way.

Jolly walked across the room and looked into the barrel Mike had opened. Wash joined Cobb and looked into the box of guns.

"Boss!" called Mike. "Come see this."

Cobb and Wash went over. Jolly resisted the urge. He stayed behind a crate and looked around the room and particularly at the shafts that led further into the mine.

"What do you got, Mike?" said Cobb from a few feet away.

"It's some sort of kiln, isn't it?" asked Mike.

"Well, I never," said Wash.

"I know what this is," said Cobb. "I never seen it, but I heard about it."

"What?" said Mike.

"Indians have been known to make their own ammunition, their own bullets," said Cobb. "Made out of clay."

"Does that work?" asked Wash.

"If you fire 'em hard enough, it works just fine," said Cobb.

"But why is Jack making clay bullets?" asked Mike.

"Could be because it's cheap," mused Cobb, "but also to throw off the army when they try to figure out where the Indians are getting their ammunition. Might just conclude that they make it themselves."

"Well, I never," Wash said again.

"Come on," said Cobb. "We got to keep going deeper in."

They set off. Wash and Jolly going down one shaft and Cobb and Mike the other. Each pair carried a lantern. After about fifty feet, however, the two shafts merged into another single room. This one, too, was full of crates and barrels, all stacked together according to three different sizes and types. There was another bifurcation of tunnels.

A single gunshot concussed the air and echoed ringingly through the whitish corridors of the mine. Mike groaned and fell forward. Cobb fired down one of the dark shafts. Jolly was unsure whether the shot had come from one tunnel or the other. Cobb fired three shots, but there was no more return fire.

"Mike," said Cobb as he knelt beside his deputy. He cupped his man's head in both hands.

"Boss," Mike said, gasping.

"Don't try to talk," said Cobb. Jolly and Wash covered both shafts but could not hear or see anything.

"I'm real sorry I let down my guard, boss," said Mike. "Are you mad at me?"

"I already forgot about it, old friend," said Cobb.

"I'm thirsty, boss," said Mike weakly.

"Here," said Cobb. "Drink from my canteen. I know it's unusual, but I actually put water in it today."

Jolly heard Mike gulping greedily and the sound echoing in the shaft.

"Thanks, boss." Mike seemed to sigh deeply.

Jolly listened while he searched the darkened shaft for any signs of further threats. Behind him, there was no further conversation between the lawmen. Presently, Cobb came up beside him. Jolly looked his way.

"Mike?" asked Jolly.

"We'll come back for his body," said Cobb, "soon as we get the sombitch that did it."

The three posse members headed down one of the tunnels together. Cobb seemed sure that was where the shot that killed Mike had come from. They used two lanterns and Wash went out ahead with one while Jolly brought up the rear with the other. They left space between them so that they couldn't all be shot down at once. They tried to take cover wherever there were outcrops or curves along the wall. Mostly, if Reddeck or whoever was shooting at them wanted to, they were sitting ducks.

A shot rang out again. This time it went wild. They all hit the floor of the shaft, getting behind any cover they could, and snuffing out both lanterns. Crawling quickly, they pulled abreast of one another and began firing down the shaft. Jolly thought he heard a noise like a groan.

"Did you hear that?" he asked.

"Shh," said Cobb. They listened. There was another groan, but then another shot was heard, and a bullet whizzed over their heads. Cobb fired again.

"Oh!" said a voice down the shaft.

The three men crawled ahead, taking turns, leapfrogging past each other, but moving at a clip. Jolly was aware that his clothing was getting torn, and he was getting bruises and scratches that were deep enough that they were bleeding. He ignored the pain and kept on going.

Cobb reached Reddeck's body first. The other two caught up to the scene shortly afterward. Wash lit his lamp. Reddeck was lying on his side in a fetal position. Unmoving. The light made the blood stains on his clothing look especially vivid. The rest of his clothes and even his skin were gray with dust.


	5. Chapter 5

A scream echoed up from the shaft. To Jolly's surprise, it was a woman's scream. Then he knew who it was.

"Carrie!" said Jolly. He had earlier picked up Mike's pistol, and he went ahead into the dark.

"Don't be a fool!" said Cobb. But Jolly had made a decision without thinking it through. He wasn't listening to anyone else anymore.

Jolly headed further down until the shaft turned upward. He climbed slowly, holding the revolver in one hand. The shaft once again opened into a new room, and Jolly cautiously went in. The room was dimly lit by a lamp in one corner. There were yet more crates and barrels, and there were two new figures.

"Hello, Jolly," said a familiar voice that he hadn't heard in what seemed like a century.

It was Jack, and he was standing in the middle of the room in the same black suit and white shirt he had worn when Jolly saw him on the street in Santa Fe. Only his hat was missing now. Behind him was yet another dark-mouthed shaft. That was not all. He was holding Carrie in front of him like a shield. Her gray dress was soiled and torn, and her blonde curls were no longer up but cascaded down her shoulders and arms. Tendrils swept at what seemed random angels across her face.

Jack held Carrie's derringer to her head.

"Hello, Jack," said Jolly. "Long time, no see."

"Yeah," said Jack. "Sorry that job offer was such a bust."

"It turned out all right," said Jolly. "I met some interesting people."

"Yes. I understand you killed Bobby Dunford."

"It was me or him."

"I don't blame you," said Jack. "He was a real boor anyway. Getting killed was the best thing that ever happened to him."

"Funny," said Jolly. "Sheriff said the same thing about you. When we thought you were dead that is." Jolly could see from her eyes that Carrie was frightened. Tears welled up in her eyes.

"I wish you had gone back home, Jolly," said Jack. "I really do."

"So, are you going to back out of the mine, holding onto Carrie all the way? Or are you going to shoot her with her own pistol?"

"Her pistol, old man? Who do you think gave it to her?"

"You wouldn't shoot her after troubling to free her," said Jolly.

"Don't count on that. Although, I don't know, Jolly. I might just do this instead." And Jack pointed the derringer at Jolly and fired.

Jolly dodged toward the wall. He remembered then that Jack was never as good a shot as he was. Shooting someone with a derringer, even at close range, was an iffy proposition. Jack was shooting at Jolly from twice the distance that had been between Jolly and Dunford. But Jack did have one more shot.

Jolly saw Jack try to aim at him, but Carrie spoiled his aim by struggling. He cursed her. Suddenly, she produced her ivory hairpin and stabbed Jack deeply in his right leg.

"You bitch, I'll kill you!" he cried, clutching his wound awkwardly with hs left hand while trying to keep control of his gun. He pushed her to the ground and began to point the derringer at her. Jolly raised his pistol and fired, but, with his unerring instinct for self-preservation, Jack broke off his threat to Carrie and leaped behind a crate. Jolly fired at him but missed.

"Back off, Jolly," said Jack, "or the next shot I take will kill her."

"Don't listen to him, Jolly!" said Carrie.

"You ungrateful, trollop," said Jack. "To think I pulled you out of the gutter."

"Hold it right there," said a hoarse voice from the darkness behind Jack.

Jack spun around and fired into the shaft. A blaze of fire accompanied by a louder retort issued from the shaft. Jack bent over, clutched his gut, then went down on his knees and rested his head on the ground. He stopped moving.

From the darkness of the shaft behind Jack's body, Wainright stepped into the dim light. Smoke still wafted from the muzzle of his six-gun. He stared straight ahead as he walked slowly for two paces before he fell face first onto the floor of the mine.

Epilogue

Jolly climbed slowly into the stage coach. His whole body seemed to be a mass of cuts and bruises. His fresh clothes and cleaned suit only helped marginally. He sank into the cushion covering the bench and sighed. He had said most of his goodbyes to Madame and Amos and others who wanted to shake his hand. He regretted not being able to find Carrie. He wondered what was going to become of her.

"You really leaving at last?" It was Cobb, one of his arms in a sling, the other leaning on the ledge of the window of the passengers' compartment.

"Yeah, finally headed back to St. Louis, just like you always wanted," said Jolly. "Even though I don't have a job there anymore."

"Well, thanks again for joining the posse."

"Yeah. Look, sorry about Mike. He was an awful good man."

"Best deputy I ever had."

"Sheriff, about Carrie," Jolly started. "I know you have to follow the law and all…."

Cobb turned and looked behind him and said, "Hold that thought, Jolly." Then he spoke to the driver. "Hold up. You got another passenger." He opened the door to the coach and gave Carrie a hand to help her in. She was dressed in that same blue gingham dress and bonnet she had worn the first time he saw her. She smiled at Jolly and then took the seat on the bench beside him.

"What about all the talk about having to follow the law, no matter what?" said Jolly.

"You see anybody with a warrant?" asked Cobb. "Besides, my jail cell is currently occupied by a real criminal, Doc Pepperidge. All I see here is a lady with a ticket to St. Louis, same as you."

"Admit it, Cobb. You're an old softy."

"I ain't admittin' nothin', Jolly." He thought a moment. "What kind of a fool name for a grown man is that, anyway? Jolly?"

"From now on, I'm going to call him Jabez," Carrie said. "That's his real name, you know."

"That a fact?" said Cobb.

"If you're going to call me something, you've got to see me occasionally," said Jolly.

"Well that's something for the two of you to work out," said Cobb. "I ain't in it and glad to be rid of the both of you."

"I think I speak for us both when I say we feel the same way about you, Sheriff," said Jolly.

"Driver, get your con-cerned rig outa my town before I flog your damn horses," said Cobb.

"Hi-ya!" called the driver, and the stage coach rumbled out of Santa Fe.

END


End file.
